


Are You My Trouble?

by mazurka



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazurka/pseuds/mazurka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evolution of a friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Stars' ["Changes"](https://vimeo.com/238168601), which came on shuffle just as I was recovering from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7ZpAksQBmU) and launched me straight into RPF hell. Set sometime between _Boys Be_ and _Love & Letter_.

At an ungodly hour on an unremarkable Wednesday night, Jihoon sits in his studio stubbornly resisting the pull of exhaustion. His head is filled with the hazy numbness of too many hours spent unwaveringly focussed on one task. He has looped a single riff so many times that it has become incomprehensibly foreign, like a word repeated ad nauseam. The sound of the door clicking open registers at the edge of his awareness, but he can’t dredge up more than passing annoyance at being disturbed.

“Hey, I brought you something.” A takeout container is dangled before him as a hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up to see Seungcheol’s dimpled grin and tired eyes.

“Eat,” he orders while dragging a chair over from the corner to plop down next to Jihoon.

“Thanks, but I’ve gotta do this first. If I don’t lock in the chorus today I’m gonna _break_ something.”

Seungcheol sighs exaggeratedly but tolerates his aimless fiddling with the track for an impressive ten minutes. A rustle of paper and styrofoam is all the warning Jihoon gets before his face is jerked to the side by a firm hand on his chin and aggressively wielded chopsticks shove noodles into his mouth. He nearly spits it all out in surprise, but Seungcheol’s faster, pressing his palm against Jihoon’s mouth to hold it all in like stoppering a bottle.

“Oh shit,” Jihoon says, muffled against his hand. Awareness of his own hunger hits like a freight train and two minutes later, Seungcheol is slam-dunking the empty container into the trashcan, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Good boy,” he teases, patting Jihoon on the head. He’s let off with only a glare, saved by the soporific effect of post-meal contentment.

Seungcheol lays his head on Jihoon’s shoulder, smelling faintly of sweat and fading cologne. His warm solidity is comforting. Cloistered in silence with only the ambient hum of electronics tethering them to the world beyond, Jihoon feels unguarded. He almost imagines that the boundaries of his mind and body lose their rigidity, making him vulnerable.

He rests his cheek against the crown of Seungcheol’s head with a sigh. His chest feels tight with all the things he doesn’t know how to express, caught up in late-night anxieties. The unmentionable question—what if they aren’t good enough?

This burden is not his to bear alone, but trust is a free fall and he steps off the ledge with his heart in his throat every time.

The urge to confess his fears presses at him like a tangible thing but he ignores it. It’s curious how difficult it can be to confide in someone who knows him too well. Familiarity engendered by time and shared trials is at once an anchor and a shackle.

He closes his eyes, concentrating on the fine hairs brushing against his temple, and gathers up the tangled mess of weariness and desperate wish to be understood, willing the thoughts to break through the barrier of his mind to seep into Seungcheol’s.

He lifts his head slightly to peer down at his friend for any signs of a reaction, fanciful delusions of telepathy fostered by the late hour and sleep deprivation. The movement jostles the drowsing body next to him and Seungcheol sleepily nuzzles deeper into the curve of his neck. Jihoon exhales a sigh that borders on a laugh at his own ridiculousness. He’s been watching way too many _X-Men_ movies.

Relaxing his muscles until the edges of his body are moulded more comfortably against Seungcheol’s, he allows sleep to overtake him.

* * *

Jihoon leans against the practice room mirror, his fringe soaked with sweat. Beside him, a spaced-out Seokmin is sitting rigidly with his legs stretched out and eyes wide open. Seungcheol has his hair tied up into a tiny sprout right on top of his head which has been steadily wilting for the last three hours.

Soonyoung’s face glistens under the fluorescent lights. He has completely run out of dry space on his shirt and is mopping his forehead with the hem of his shorts in an ultimately futile attempt to wipe away the sweat. It’s enough to make a person wonder if he has waterfalls for sweat glands.

“All right, let’s take it from the top,” Soonyoung calls out, clapping his hands to rouse everyone from their brief stupor. “Three more clean run-throughs and we can wrap up for today.”

Everyone snaps into formation, fatigue notwithstanding. Soonyoung hollers a firm “Five, six, seven, eight” and they are off, moving as one with the gritted-teeth determination of a runner whose finish line is in sight. Three loops of the song later and it’s freedom at last.

“Hell yeah!” Soonyoung screeches as he and Seokmin run towards each other for a mid-air chest bump then both collapse dramatically to the floor.

“Human pyramid!” Seungcheol whoops, flopping down heavily on top of them. The other members join in with alacrity, herding along anyone lingering behind.

Soon enough, Jihoon is squashed underneath Seungkwan and Minghao in a pile of sweaty boys. Someone’s butt is in his face and there are elbows in dangerous proximity to sensitive areas, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. Buoyed by the mingled sounds of complaints and laughter, he feels some of the ever-present tension coiled in his chest start to unwind by degrees.

He pinches Seungkwan’s arm hard just to be a shit and basks in the afterglow of petty violence as his victim howls indignantly. Jihoon grins; it’s the little things, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No fic would be complete without the requisite scene of food being delivered to Workaholic JihoonTM. This chapter brought to you by SVT doing their [best impression of a puppy pile](https://youtu.be/zlaqT6JxxVA?t=136).


	2. Chapter 2

Seungcheol groans in frustration, tearing his headphones off. He has been shuffling through various backing tracks, freestyling over them and searching for inspiration with not much to show for it except a half-baked rhyme with curse words that he will need to cut out later.

In the corner, Jisoo and Hansol are bobbing their heads and gesticulating vigorously, rapping something about chicken feet. Seungkwan does a frenetic box-step to their beat and drags an indulgent Minghao along with him.

Seungcheol spares them an amused glance as he walks by and heads towards the studio. He pops his head in to find Jihoon at the keyboard working on a track with Seokmin. Mingyu is sitting on the floor, purportedly practising his rap. The three of them look up at his approach.

“Hey,” Mingyu greets, beaming. He pats the floor next to him. “Come sit!”

Seungcheol drops beside him with a sigh. He doesn’t protest when Mingyu scoots over to sit between his legs, simply wrapping his arms around the lanky intrusion and lapsing into quiet observation.

Jihoon records a sequence of blocky chords and sets that to loop while he plays around with the melody contemplatively. “This is a solid ballad,” he says, not seeming to address anyone in particular.

“Isn’t it?” Seokmin says, face lighting up with a grin. “It’s kind of weird and nostalgic to be using our old trainee songs. I mean, it’s nice but I’m half-expecting Wonwoo to walk in with bleached hair and a choker.”

“Remember when Seungcheol-hyung had red hair?” Mingyu adds with a giggle. “It was the exact shade of cherry cough syrup.”

“Oi!” Seungcheol tweaks Mingyu’s ear forcefully. “Is that any way to talk to your elders, you little shit?”

“‘Elders’ my ass,” Mingyu mutters, rubbing his abused ear sulkily, though he grabs Seungcheol’s hand and twines their fingers together to placate him.

“For God’s sake, shut up,” Jihoon says tersely, glaring at the two of them.

Seungcheol springs to his feet, clicking his heels together and snapping a hand to his forehead in a salute.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Producer, sir,” he intones gravely. “Lieutenant, up!” He stamps his foot loudly and Mingyu nearly trips in his haste to stand.

“Dismissed!” Seokmin hollers, instantly assuming a character. “Forward march!”

The two of them file through the door with martial solemnity to Seokmin’s operatic rendition of the national anthem. In his periphery, Seungcheol could swear that he sees an exasperated smile tugging at the corner of Jihoon’s mouth.

* * *

A few hours and lines of scrapped lyrics later, Seungcheol peeks into the studio once more, intending to offer some brief encouragement before heading back to the dorm. To his amusement, instead of a practically zombified Jihoon staring at the computer screen, what he finds is the workaholic slumped over his desk, snoring lightly.

Seungcheol smiles, equal parts fond and wistful. There was a time when he would have simply pulled rank and ordered his grumbling friend to take a break before he collapsed. But things are different now.

They have worked through the worst of recalibrating their relationship since those tumultuous months before their debut. He remembers the helpless, consuming panic as Jihoon had started shutting him out, slowly but surely. The most torturous thing had been the inconsistency; if he had been utterly stonewalled it might have prompted him to act sooner, but Jihoon’s moods shifted like the tides. And for all that they had drifted apart, the old warmth could be recalled in an instant with a shared laugh or distracted touch.

They had weathered so much together, years of mounting bitterness as fellow trainees came and went while they were stuck in perpetual limbo. They should have been the most natural allies. The thought that Jihoon could leave him behind just like that scared the shit out of him and his hurt had morphed into resentment.

Those days, the heaviness of Jihoon’s demeanour seemed to permeate the building. The others sensed it too, simultaneously walking on eggshells and making painstaking efforts to treat him normally.

As the eldest, Seungcheol took it upon himself to shoulder the members’ burdens as much as he could. That had been one of the advantages of being older; Jihoon was fiercely prideful about showing weakness, but he would allow himself to be softer around Seungcheol. Since he was younger, it was normal to be taken care of sometimes.

Being appointed the group’s producer had put them on awkward footing with each other. Did Seungcheol have a right to act as spokesman and force a confrontation? After all, Seventeen’s fate rested almost entirely in Jihoon’s hands; he was the de facto leader. Jihoon had put up a barrier between himself and the rest of the world and Seungcheol was no longer allowed to breach it.

As the date of their debut broadcast drew inexorably closer, the tension had wound tighter and tighter and Seungcheol could only watch with despairing impotence. Jihoon had felt as distant and unreachable as a character on a movie screen.

It was the awful paradox of festering problems that the worse it got, the more fervently Seungcheol hoped it would somehow resolve itself. Surely, they knew each other too well to let this go on forever. He knew that Jihoon must be hurting. Didn’t it follow naturally that Jihoon must know how he was hurting, too?

Perhaps the worst thing about all of it was the dawning realisation that he didn’t know Jihoon as well as he had believed. He had longed for an end to their stagnant trainee life, but hadn’t anticipated the magnitude of the required sacrifices.

Now, looking down at Jihoon’s slumbering form in the studio, he feels a surge of mingled affection and regret so sharp that his chest aches with it.

Illuminated by the cold glow of the monitor, Jihoon looks unearthly, with no expressions animating the stillness of his fine features. Seungcheol reaches out, slowly stroking a thumb across his cheekbone. Somewhere along the line, his chubby cheeks had hollowed out. Such a banal loss, the gentle rondure of childhood traded in for angles and edges.

Reluctantly, he gives Jihoon’s face two brisk pats to wake him, but to no avail. Snickering to himself, he pinches Jihoon’s nose shut until his mouth drops open with a cute little plop and then, on a whim, grabs his chin and ventriloquises the Gwiyomi song with Jihoon as an unwitting puppet.

“What the hell is going on?” Jihoon mumbles sleepily, finally stirring while Seungcheol’s busy guffawing at his own genius.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says cheerfully. “You’ve got keyboard imprints on your face.”

Jihoon yawns, blinking drowsily. “Fuck, is it actually morning?”

“Yup, technically—three hours in.” Seungcheol looks on as Jihoon squints half-heartedly at his monitor. “You’re not seriously gonna keep working, are you? You’re dead on your feet.”

He grabs Jihoon’s face with both hands and crouches down to eye level. In a sickeningly sweet baby voice, he wheedles, “Pretty please, can we go home?”

“Fuck off,” Jihoon growls as menacingly as he can manage with Seungcheol’s hands squishing his cheeks together.

“Aw, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” Seungcheol coos, deriving deep satisfaction from the flush reddening Jihoon’s ears.

Before Jihoon can wriggle out of his grip, Seungcheol puckers his lips and plants a huge, sloppy smooch on one cheek. Just as angry yelling fills the air, he takes advantage of the confusion and lands an equally slobbery kiss on his other cheek.

“Oh my God,” Jihoon groans, squirming and kicking and laughing with a slightly hysterical edge. “Why is this happening to me?”

Seungcheol laughs brightly, manic and giddy. Jihoon’s still attempting to struggle away and lands a few solid—and painful—kicks, but neither of them can stop giggling. Jihoon’s eyes are crinkled with mirth and his cheeks feel warm and smooth against Seungcheol’s palms.

Some obscure part of his brain chimes in inanely that he might as well make it three for good luck and without conscious volition, his body is closing the distance between them to press his lips to Jihoon’s.

He expects spluttering and curses, waits for a slap that doesn’t come. Instead, Jihoon’s laugh dies in his throat and he goes horribly still. They’ve played at kissing before, harmless jokes and fraternal affection, but the timing is all wrong now. Seclusion and darkness lend a startling gravity that traps them both.

Seungcheol feels it like being doused with ice water, a disarming shock that doesn’t register as either pain or pleasure. His mind is a jumbled mess and the only directive his body understands is to move closer, so he does, moulding his lips more fully against Jihoon’s. All he can hear is his own deafening heartbeat and he thinks wildly that Jihoon must hear it too, that it’s giving him away.

Too soon and much too late, he’s being pushed away forcefully. He stumbles, leaning against the wall to hide the unsteadiness of his legs. Jihoon stares at the floor and he stares at Jihoon. The thought of breaking the silence is unbearable.

He allows himself one minute, then two. Gathering his resolve, he takes a deep breath and musters a smile. “Well, I’m pooped. Let’s get out of here.” He grabs an unresisting Jihoon by the wrist and ushers him out with theatrical fussiness, determinedly putting the incident behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% serious disclaimer: Any opinions regarding Drake and the seminality of his music expressed in this work are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author.

The following week passes by with stilted awkwardness and nigh on farcical attempts to avoid being alone with each other. At one point, Jihoon wanders into the bathroom while Seungcheol is shaving. After two milliseconds of deer-in-headlights panic, he bolts like he had seen a ghost. Seungcheol wants to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all.

Twice, he works up the nerve for a heart-to-heart, but both times the studio door is locked. He simply flees without knocking, guiltily relieved that fate was enabling his cowardice.

One week to the day since Seungcheol’s lapse in sanity, they are out with half the members at a cafe. It’s easier to fake normalcy when surrounded by the others, though their unresolved bullshit lingers in the air like a bad odour.

“Listen,” Jisoo says, solemn as an undertaker. “ _If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late_ was iconic from the get-go. I mean, let’s be real, meme potential is the true measure of cultural impact and even the frickin’ album release was a meme. Like, the Internet collectively lost their minds.”

“Beyoncé did it first though,” Jihoon interrupts. “Two years before Drake.”

Hansol shakes his head mournfully. “Josh, my man, that you of all people would betray me like this. First of all, why the hell is the title so long? It’s a whole goddamn sentence. No one’s got time for that shit, am I right?”

“Shorter _is_ cleaner,” Jeonghan agrees thoughtfully, smirking at the long-suffering look Jisoo throws his way. “A title like _Views_ has a classic kind of feel to it; enigmatic but also straight to the point.”

“Yes! Gimme some,” Hansol enthuses as he reaches over for a fist bump. “And honestly, you want iconic? Two words: ‘Hotline Bling’.”

At this, Jun pats Jisoo’s shoulder in consolation. “He’s got you there, dude. I don’t even like Western music much, but that song was a hell of an earworm.”

“The video was fucking wild, too. Like some kind of minimalist, neon pastel acid trip,” Seungcheol chimes in, gesturing enthusiastically.

“Ah, S.Coups, you’ve had a lot of experience with acid trips, have you?” Jeonghan raises a eyebrow at him, tone withering.

“Goddamn it, Jeonghan, I say _one_ thing…” Seungcheol grumbles as Hansol and Jihoon snicker at his expense.

“Oh, another thing,” Hansol says, turning to Jisoo. “ _If You’re Reading_ isn’t even an album—it’s a mixtape.”

He stands with a flourish, mimes a mic drop and spreads his arms wide. Seungcheol hoots and cheers so loudly that other patrons start staring.

“Semantics,” Jisoo cries indignantly, though he is mostly drowned out by Jeonghan and Jihoon joining in with applause.

“‘A rose by any other name’,” Jun quotes, a wry and unmoved spectator. He pats Jisoo’s hair as if soothing a disgruntled animal.

“Anyway,” Seungcheol states with finality once decorum has been restored. “We all know what the real issue is—when is Nicki Minaj gonna drop a new album?”

“Hear, hear,” Hansol calls, raising his cup of coffee. “A toast to Nicki-noona! May she watch over us this comeback. Now let’s get out of here; I swear the barista has been giving us the evil eye for the past twenty minutes.”

* * *

Outside, the air is balmy and tinged with the myriad scents of the city, a sweet aroma of baked goods following on the heels of exhaust fumes.

Their group is a boisterous pocket of noise as they stroll along. As usual, they break randomly into pairs or trios to avoid blocking other pedestrians. Jihoon ends up falling to the back of the line, half-listening to the ruckus of the rowdier members ahead and lost in thought.

“What’s with the long face? You’ll get frown lines brooding like that.” Jun slings an arm around him, ever companionable. “Something on your mind?”

Jihoon shrugs one shoulder. “Nothing, really.”

Jun peers at him sceptically. “You know, it’s not good to keep things bottled up like that. Whatever it is, maybe you should bring it up at a group talk. Even macho Busan men have feelings, too.”

Jihoon aims a smack at his side for that, but he just dances out of reach, laughing good-naturedly. He shuffles back momentarily, expression more serious. “You don’t have to go it alone, that’s all I’m saying. You’ve got plenty of shoulders to lean on.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose at the unrestrained sentimentality, but he is warmed by it nonetheless, the reassurance that whatever comes their way, this ragtag bunch of boys will see it through together.

“Yeah, I know,” is all Jihoon says.

His gaze is drawn to Seungcheol, and he watches him say something to Jisoo, eyes slitted in mirth. Indistinct under the streetlights, his profile is as familiar as a well-worn book. When he laughs, dorky and infectious, the sound is a passage that Jihoon knows by heart.

Where does that leave him? He thinks about the quiet of the studio and the thrilling, terrifying warmth of lips against his. It makes his stomach twist with panicked nausea. All at once, he is overcome by an undirected longing so strong that he feels sick from it. He has no idea what he wants. If only he could carve his own heart out of his chest and interrogate it for answers.

Absorbed in rumination, he doesn’t notice that the group has stopped until someone grabs his arm and tugs him back.

“Jihoon-ah, are you ditching us?” Jeonghan asks, releasing his arm with a smile. “We’ve gotta wait for the bottomless pit over there to buy his hot dog.”

“Hey, I heard that,” Seungcheol calls from his spot in line at a food cart. “I’m a growing boy.”

“You’re the oldest one here,” Jihoon says with a snort.

“Exactly! I need a full tank to deal with you munchkins.”

“Call me a munchkin again, I dare you.” Jihoon moves closer threateningly but Seungcheol just laughs, taking his cap off and placing it on Jihoon’s head.

“Ugh, gross, it’s all sweaty.” He grimaces and snatches the hat from his head to swat Seungcheol with it.

“Talk shit, get hit, hyung,” Hansol says, grinning.

Seungcheol starts to retort something when he suddenly freezes with an inquisitive look on his face. He puts a finger to his lips, stage-whispering, “Do you hear that?”

Above the usual sounds of traffic, they hear the unmistakable strains of “Mansae” blaring from spectacularly shitty speakers. Everyone’s attention now riveted on the road, they start cheering wildly as the driver comes into view, who turns out to be a delivery guy on a wheezing Vespa. He pauses at the stop light just long enough for them to yell, “S.Coooooooups!” in time with the crackly recording. Jihoon jumps in front of Seungcheol and starts rapping his part with aplomb.

Seungcheol screeches in mock outrage at being usurped. He grabs Jihoon around the middle, hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then dumps him unceremoniously on his ass.

Jihoon sits on the sidewalk, laughing so hard that his sides hurt. Seungcheol drops to his knees dramatically, hollering declarations of love and eternal devotion at the delivery driver as he putters off, oblivious to the commotion.

At this point, people walking by are giving them a wide berth, probably assuming that they are drunk. Jisoo bows to one pedestrian and apologises politely before turning to wave forlornly at the departing Vespa, shouting, “Call me!”

When they finally redirect their attention to the food cart, the hot dog vendor is looking at them like he isn’t sure whether to scold them or laugh. A round of flattery and small talk later, they have managed to inveigle him into promising that he would support their comeback.

As they chat and wait for the food, the adrenaline from their earlier antics dissipates and Jihoon finds that he is swaying on his feet. Seungcheol stands in front of him, charming the hot dog man with enough verve to make any PR rep proud. He feels mellow with fondness and allows himself to lean forward to rest his cheek against Seungcheol’s shoulder blade, absently noting how his muscles stiffen in surprise at the contact before relaxing.

 _Tomorrow_ , he decides sleepily. _Tomorrow we’ll talk it out and things will be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [Coups' love for Nicki Minaj](http://v-hansolchoi.tumblr.com/post/131536242876).


	4. Chapter 4

Jihoon sits at his keyboard, right hand plucking out melodies from his works in progress as he hums prospective harmonies over them. His left hand taps an erratic rhythm on his thigh, the only outward sign of gradually mounting anxiety. He had woken up determined to clear the air with Seungcheol, but at the first sight of his bunkmate’s groggy morning smile his resolve had faltered. Was it really necessary to lay it out in stark, unmalleable words?

Seungcheol had been in and out of the studio all day, though always accompanied by other members. They had worked on songs with faultless efficiency and every semblance of their typical ease—overall, a productive day.

Still, there was something facile about it, as if they had both been performing roles for the sake of an audience. The wrongness was a niggling discomfiture like the itch of a mosquito bite.

Several times, he had wanted to speak up as Seungcheol was leaving the room, but the words had stuck in his throat. Some obstinate part of himself reflexively balked at such a display of vulnerability.

He is diverted from his quandary by the buzz of his phone.

 **soonyoung:** hey we’re wrapping up for the night. don’t stay too late bro

It’s followed by a photo of the practice room with Soonyoung blowing a kiss to the camera. In the background, Chan is blowing a kiss to Seungcheol, who is carrying him bridal style.

Jihoon smiles, rolling his eyes at their shenanigans. Before he can psych himself out, he types and sends: “tell seungcheol to come up”.

 **soonyoung:** SIIIIIIGH u workaholics

Two minutes later, Seungcheol bursts into the studio, slightly out of breath. “Hey, you needed me? What’re we working on?”

“Hey,” Jihoon says, clearing his throat. “It’s, uh, not about a song, actually.”

Seungcheol steps closer, one hand wandering towards the keyboard. He plunks a few random notes in a jaunty rhythm, smiling when Jihoon mirrors it with his own little trill. “What is it, then?”

The weight of Seungcheol’s scrutiny is as solid as a touch and Jihoon finds that he can’t stand to look at him. He keeps his eyes trained on the keyboard.

“Last week,” he bites out, unable to say more. His heart is beating against his ribcage like a feral, trapped thing and the sound of Seungcheol’s short intake of breath makes his own breathing falter.

Without warning, Seungcheol drops to the floor, sitting with his head tilted upwards to stare into Jihoon’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says heavily. “It shouldn’t have fallen to you to bring it up. What kind of shitty leader, huh?” He looks away with a defeated twist of a smile on his face.

He sounds drained, heartsick, and suddenly Jihoon is filled with a hot, frustrated rage that makes him want to tear something apart.

“Yeah, what kind of shitty leader,” he echoes, sharp and merciless, watching Seungcheol wince. He feels awful the instant the words leave his mouth. He wants to take them back but he needs to hurt Seungcheol more, to make this about his fuck-ups so it can’t be about anything else.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, lifting his head to look at Jihoon again, his gaze wet and sad, and the last of Jihoon’s anger is doused by a wave of remorse. This isn’t how he’d wanted things to go.

“Shut up,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t want you to apologise; I want to talk.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows lift in shock, but a helpless smile slowly spreads across his face at Jihoon’s bluntness.

“You big crybaby,” he mutters as Seungcheol attempts to surreptitiously wipe his eyes.

“Hey, I did not cry! Bawling over you once is enough humiliation for one lifetime, thanks.”

Jihoon snickers gleefully. “And on camera, too.”

“Oh, piss off. You cried, too!”

“You cried first!”

“Girls love sensitive guys! I was showing a softer side of Seventeen.”

“So you were weeping for the sake of the group’s image.”

“Oh my God, I was not _weeping_.”

They share a grin and Jihoon feels light-headed with relief that Seungcheol isn’t looking at him so wretchedly anymore, like he had hurt him in some irreparable way.

“Honestly, I wasn’t thinking,” Seungcheol blurts out in a rush. “It was just supposed to be some stupid joke and I thought we’d laugh it off, but you looked so serious and I panicked. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Jihoon says noncommittally, wringing his hands. They regard each other silently for a moment.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Seungcheol asks, tentative.

Jihoon stills, considering the truthful answer to that question. He leans in and reaches a hand out until his index finger lands gently at the corner of Seungcheol’s eye. He traces the shadow underneath it carefully, finger gliding over the bridge of his nose to follow the outline of the other eye’s shadow as well.

“You ought to sleep more,” he remarks, trying for nonchalance.

“Hypocrite.” Seungcheol looks at him with a question in his eyes and he is barely breathing, as if afraid to startle them out of whatever trance has taken hold.

Jihoon trails his fingertip down to sweep along his jawline, stopping at his chin and fluttering two fingers on it like he’s playing a mordent on the piano. Seungcheol juts his chin out, grinning, and Jihoon’s eyes are drawn to the crescents of his dimples. He pokes at one, watching it deepen as his grin widens and disappear when his expression grows serious once more.

“Keep smiling,” Jihoon orders, digging his fingernail in for emphasis.

“So pushy.” Seungcheol complies, altogether transfixed by him.

Jihoon leans back, hand dropping away from its impulsive exploration. He rests his head back against the chair, looking up at the ceiling to escape Seungcheol’s stare.

“I’ve never even kissed a girl,” he says, helpless laughter bubbling up.

“It’ll happen one day.”

“That’s not the point!” Jihoon groans, slumping forward to hide his face in his hands. “Why is everything so fucking difficult?”

“I know.”

He lifts his head to meet Seungcheol’s deliberately neutral countenance and feels so frustrated that he thinks he might combust. Why had he believed that discussion would help? There are a million questions hanging in the air between them, but the thought of voicing any of them makes his stomach lurch queasily.

“Come,” Seungcheol says, tugging at Jihoon’s hands. “I’m getting a cramp craning my head up to look at you.”

He acquiesces, sliding off the chair to sit on the floor.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Seungcheol says softly. “Just tell me—what do you want?”

“For things to make some fucking sense,” Jihoon snaps, knowing that he sounds childish and beyond caring. “For shit to go the way it’s supposed to, for everything to be _easier_. To not be having this conversation.”

Seungcheol smiles at his outburst. “Slow down, don’t get all existential on me. What do you want right now?”

“I don’t know,” Jihoon says defensively. “What do you want?”

Seungcheol’s expression goes intent and he gently takes Jihoon’s hands in his own. He studies him, gauging his reaction. Jihoon stays still, mind blank and a flush creeping its way up his neck.

Quick as a flash, Seungcheol darts forward and lightly pecks Jihoon’s mouth. He pulls back slightly, letting go of his hands, and takes a breath as if about to speak but only exhales in a gust, evidently thinking better of it. Jihoon closes his eyes, hands balled into fists at his sides, and waits.

The rustle of clothing, a warm hand cupping the back of his neck, and then Seungcheol’s lips are soft and full against his.

Jihoon pauses, simply focussing on the novel sensations and tamping down on his instinctual urge to run.

Then, Seungcheol moves, and sweetly, insistently coaxes Jihoon’s lips to soften, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the nape of his neck.

Jihoon takes a shuddering breath in through his nose, feeling heat suffuse his body like he’s downed a shot of liquor, heady and dangerous.

Kissing is strange, he thinks, half delirious from the persistent caress of Seungcheol’s mouth. It’s not a pleasant sensation, per se, the wet slide of lips and saliva, but his whole body burns from it like he’s feverish and all he can think about is getting closer. He shifts to kneel on the floor and his hands land on Seungcheol’s shoulders almost of their own accord.

Sensing his eagerness, Seungcheol ups the ante, hand firm on his neck while he sucks on Jihoon’s bottom lip until he shivers, then slides his tongue into his mouth, easy as anything.

Jihoon jolts back in surprise, unlatching from the kiss but held in place by Seungcheol’s hand.

“That feels so weird,” he says, and it takes monumental effort to keep his voice steady.

Seungcheol laughs, sounding breathless. “What, kissing generally or my tongue in your mouth?”

“All of it, I guess. It’s so…wet.” He squeezes Seungcheol’s shoulders, embarrassed by his own inexperience.

“Do you want to stop?” Seungcheol asks, annoyingly kind. He releases his hold on Jihoon’s neck and leans back, hands braced against the floor.

In lieu of a response, Jihoon plops himself down on Seungcheol’s lap, who almost overbalances from shock, and very assertively sticks his tongue in his mouth.

Seungcheol splutters, laughing into the kiss. “My, my, I had no idea you were such a minx.”

For that, Jihoon shoves him back hard and he barely manages to catch himself on his elbows. He looks up, anticipatory light in his eyes.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Jihoon says shortly. “Just keep going.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Seungcheol smirks, pulling him down. Jihoon’s lips are parted in expectation and Seungcheol wastes no time as he slots their mouths together, his tongue sliding against Jihoon’s in a sensation that is simultaneously odd and exhilarating.

He slips a hand up Jihoon’s shirt, palm rough on the smooth skin of his back. The contact seems to ignite something in Seungcheol, who flips them over, a hand cupping Jihoon’s head to cushion his landing, and attacks his mouth like he wants to crawl inside his skin.

The cold of the floor is like ice against Jihoon’s overheated body. He threads his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair and arches up, instinctively chasing the warmth radiating from him. Everything is reduced to this moment, the unyielding body pressing him down and how it’s slowly driving him crazy.

Seungcheol groans, hands moving to grip Jihoon’s hips tightly. He holds him in place as he rolls his pelvis, and Jihoon swears he almost passes out from how quickly all his blood rushes south.

Seungcheol snakes one hand down to squeeze the bulge of his erection through his jeans and Jihoon breaks from the kiss with a gasp, the spike of pleasure so sharp that it borders on pain.

He tucks his face into Seungcheol’s shoulder, biting down hard and taking in shuddering breaths through his nose.

“God,” Seungcheol says lowly. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

Of all things, it’s his voice that brings Jihoon crashing back to reality, accompanied by the sudden, sobering awareness of what he’s doing.

“Shit,” he mutters fiercely as he scrambles out from underneath Seungcheol. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_.”

Seungcheol looks up at him from the floor, still hovering over the space where Jihoon had been seconds ago. He seems bewildered for an instant, then his gaze rakes up and down Jihoon’s body, darkly determined. He looks like he’s considering tackling him to the floor to pick up where they left off.

“We didn’t even lock the door!” Jihoon protests, as if rebutting an argument Seungcheol had made.

Seungcheol’s stance shifts at that, losing its predatory tension. He runs a hand through his hair, mussed by Jihoon’s fingers earlier and sits back, sighing. “Shit, that was stupid.”

Jihoon takes in the sight of him, hair wild and lips swollen from kissing. He’s pretty sure that the little damp spot on Seungcheol’s shoulder is from when he was biting down on it and he wonders if it will leave a bruise. He lets his eyes flicker briefly to where Seungcheol is still visibly hard, then looks away, swallowing thickly as his own body responds with a surge of arousal. He feels like he’s two firm strokes away from making a mess of his boxers, but he also feels an impending meltdown due to the fact that he almost fucked his oldest _male_ friend on the floor of their company studio. With the door unlocked.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says cautiously, getting to his feet. “Are you okay?”

Jihoon evaluates his own mental state as Seungcheol lingers nearby, leaving a prudent distance between them.

“I think I’m too tired to freak out about anything right now,” he says wryly, and it’s mostly true.

Seungcheol smiles, extending a hand to pull him to his feet. “And what about tomorrow?” he asks, tone carefully light.

“Oh, I dunno.” Jihoon waves dismissively. “I probably won’t have time for a proper breakdown until at least a month after promotions.”

Seungcheol grins at him, open and unfeigned. “Come on, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, I'd forgotten how hard it is to write kissing. I swear, ["difficult, difficult, lemon difficult"](https://youtu.be/7mAFiPVs3tM) has become my writing mantra. I'd apologise for the blue balls but it's about to get filthier soon anyway, so hang in there. Feel free to come talk to me in the comments or on Twitter! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching our way towards that rating! Have some clips of Wonwoo [throwing Mingyu's own shoes at him](https://youtu.be/aEEiZcJ5yKw?t=47) and [hitting him with a tape measure](https://youtu.be/qysxd0bHtBY?t=81) to keep your spirits up.

“You know what I would kill for right now?” Mingyu muses, lying on the floor of the hallway with his head pillowed on Wonwoo’s thigh. When he gets no response, he lifts himself up on his elbow, frowning.

“You know what I would _kill for_ right now?” he repeats, louder and over-enunciating.

“Don’t care,” Wonwoo says, not even looking up from the page of scrawled lyrics in his hands.

“Too stressed to care,” Seungcheol adds, equally absorbed in his own work.

Hansol sits leaning against the opposite wall, eyes closed and brow furrowed as he whisper-raps, tapping his foot to the thumping beat from his headphones.

Mingyu lies back down, pouting. “Nothing but disrespect every day. But when you want an entire raw chicken breaded and fried or the washing machine breaks down, it’s all ‘Oh, Mingyu, what would we do without you?’.”

“Keep whining, gigantor,” Wonwoo warns with a stinging flick to his forehead.

“What are we whining about?” Seungkwan asks, rounding the corner and sitting down next to Mingyu.

“I’m being bullied!” he cries indignantly, clasping Seungkwan’s hand.

“He’s slacking off,” Seungcheol corrects.

“I already wrote some lyrics! But then Wonwoo-hyung wanted to revise them and he’s taking forever.” Mingyu pokes Wonwoo’s knee and gets another forehead flick for his trouble.

“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link,” Wonwoo says vaguely and Mingyu shoots Seungkwan a vindicated glance.

“There, there, dear.” Seungkwan gives his hand a consoling pat. “They’re just jealous of your looks.”

“Aw, do you really think I’m handsome?” Mingyu asks coyly, the point of a sharp canine showing in his smile.

Seungkwan twinkles down at him, the picture of guileless benevolence. “Don’t push it, buddy.”

“Anyway,” he announces, clapping his hands together. “I’m here because a certain Mr. ‘Dollar-Sign Coups’ owes me a meal and I’m ready to collect.”

Seungcheol pouts. “You kids are bankrupting me, I swear. Don’t you have any shame?”

“Nope,” Seungkwan says cheerily, hopping to his feet and sauntering away. “Now come pay for dinner, O exalted leader, or else next week on Sukira I’m telling everyone that you got butt implants.”

“You little twerp,” Seungcheol yells, abandoning his work to chase Seungkwan down the hall. “You know how many squats I do to keep it this fucking perky?”

“Don’t forget your wallet!” Seungkwan calls over his shoulder as he runs, laughing maniacally.

* * *

An hour later, Seungcheol finds himself at a BBQ joint with some of the members who had been enticed by Seungkwan’s declaration of free food. He has put away two bottles of soju and his self-pity has increased in proportion to his blood-alcohol level.

“Seungkwan,” he laments in the simultaneously performative and conspiratorial tone of the drunk. “You’re going to eat me out of house and home.”

“Oh, please,” Seungkwan retorts, unruffled. “It’s some cheap meat, not filet mignon. Besides, you’ve eaten more than anyone else at this table.”

“By the way, I’m not paying for the rest of you,” Seungcheol warns and he is answered by a chorus of vehement protests.

“Leader, don’t you want me to grow taller?” Chan asks earnestly.

“Really,” Jeonghan chimes in. He cradles Chan to his chest and glowers, the very embodiment of disdain. “You heartless beast.”

“What has this country come to?” Seokmin shakes his head sorrowfully, adopting a wheezing old man’s voice. “That our own young’uns must go to bed with empty bellies.”

Soonyoung instantly dons the role of grandmother, wagging his finger at Seungcheol. “A good ol’-fashioned whoopin’ is what you need—that’ll teach you not to mistreat children!”

“Are you kidding me?” Seungcheol whines. Beside him, Wonwoo snickers delightedly at his misfortune.

“This is character assassination!” He gesticulates fervently, almost knocking over his chopsticks in his excitement.

“Save it for the jury,” Seungkwan says, then turns to flag down a waiter.

Seungcheol orders another bottle of alcohol, resigned to footing the bill for the night.

* * *

“Hello? Delivery for Mr. Lee Jihoon?” Seungkwan calls, stepping into the studio with a takeout bag swinging from his hand. Seungcheol follows at his heels, decidedly intoxicated and jovial as a result. Jihoon spins around in his chair, taking his headphones off and quirking an eyebrow at the sight before him.

“We brought you dinner,” Seungcheol proclaims, beaming expectantly like a dog seeking praise.

“Mhm, I see that.” He darts an amused glance at Seungcheol before taking the proffered bag with a murmur of thanks.

Mission accomplished, Seungkwan starts pushing Seungcheol towards the door. “I’d better get this one home before he trips over his own feet and gets a concussion or something.”

“No, no, I’m staying!” Seungcheol protests, batting at his hands. “I’ve got very important work to do with the producer.”

“You can do some very important work right now, by putting one foot in front of the other,” Seungkwan says, as if humouring a child. “You’re sloshed.”

“I am buzzed, Boo Seungkwan, _buzzed_.” He pulls a chair over next to Jihoon and drops into it stubbornly, arms crossed and staring Seungkwan down.

“But I can’t walk home alone! What if I get mugged? Or kidnapped? Then Hansol will try to take my part in ‘Mansae’ and you know he doesn’t have the panache to carry it.” Seungkwan gives his most pitiful puppy-dog eyes.

“If you run, you can still catch up to the others at the restaurant.” Seungcheol grins at Seungkwan’s affronted gape.

“If I get murdered, I will come back to personally haunt the shit out of you,” he avows, stomping off in a huff.

Seungcheol chuckles as he listens to the sound of footsteps receding. “Frankly, I feel sorry for any sucker who tries to rob him. The set of lungs on that boy, he’d probably wake up the entire city with his screaming.”

Jihoon shakes his head, scarfing down his dinner like a starving man. He pauses just long enough to say, “You’re such a dick.”

“That’s why you love me,” Seungcheol sing-songs cheekily, moving closer to peer at the expression on his face.

Jihoon scowls as effectively as he can with his cheeks puffed out with food and cold-shoulders him to finish eating.

Seungcheol laughs, tipsy and blissfully unconcerned. He opens up one of their unfinished tracks on the computer, alternately singing over it and suggesting potential changes to no one in particular. He’s just getting into a passionate falsetto when Jihoon leans over to pause the music.

He turns around and a small packet of cookies is shoved into his hands. He blinks down at it, confused. He then raises his head to blink some more, awaiting an explanation.

Jihoon is looking off to the side, grimacing like he smells something unpleasant. “I was kinda harsh yesterday,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

A slow smile spreads across Seungcheol’s face as realisation dawns on him. “Sorry? For what?” he asks innocently, enjoying Jihoon’s squirming.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” His mouth forms a tiny discomfited moue.

Seungcheol lounges, watching Jihoon’s shoulders rise stiffly until he gives in and says through clenched teeth, “I don’t think you’re a shitty leader.” He looks like he wants to add something more, but can’t quite force it out.

Seungcheol grins, tearing open the packaging and munching on a cookie. “Apology accepted. Now say that last part one more time so I can record it and set it as my ringtone.”

The tension floods out of Jihoon like a burst dam, and he lifts his eyes to level a challenging stare. “Try it and I’ll sample your snoring for our next single.”

He chuckles, vibrant and pleased. “Come on, you’ve been working all day. Let’s chill out for a bit.” Twisting in his chair and scanning the room, his eyes alight on a guitar in the corner. He leaps up to grab it, then sits back down, holding it gracelessly. He plucks at a few strings and wishes—not for the first time—that he had taken music lessons as a child. He toys with the tuning pegs, observing with unconcealed fascination as the pitch of a string changes when he turns the peg back and forth.

Jihoon looks on, amused. “You know, we’re gonna have to retune it now, after you’re done messing around.”

“Teach me how,” he implores, artlessly eager. Jihoon reaches out, patiently guiding his hands through the process.

Seungcheol strums a chord on the newly tuned guitar and listens, dreamily engrossed, as the notes dissipate.

“Now, time for the master to take over,” he says decisively, passing the instrument to Jihoon.

“What should I play?” Jihoon absently taps on the polished wood.

“Anything. Just sing me something.” Seungcheol leans forward in his seat, attentive despite his inebriation.

Jihoon considers for a minute, then launches into Crush’s “Whatever You Do”. Seungcheol bobs his head to the rhythm, joining in to harmonise here and there. It’s second nature, making music together. He is looking at him and Jihoon is looking back, the connection between them like an affirmation. Their voices supplement each other with practised ease. It’s so impossibly good that he’s carried away by it like there is nothing else in the world.

Jihoon barely has time to catch his breath after the last verse before Seungcheol’s demanding another song. He obliges, fingers nimbly drawing out favourite melodies.

Seungcheol is mesmerised by the rise and fall of Jihoon’s voice and the shape of his mouth as words drop from his lips.

Then it’s silent once more, and the way Jihoon is looking at him makes his heart stutter in his chest. The air seems charged with possibility. He wants to touch and to take but he’s frozen in place, caught in the path of Jihoon’s gaze. So, he endures the lull and merely waits.

He holds his breath, suspended, until Jihoon starts playing again. His expression is inscrutable as he strums the opening chords of “Simple”.

Seungcheol knows this song like he knows all of Jihoon’s compositions. Each one recalls the innumerable times he has been used as a sounding board for ideas and fledgling themes.

He had never felt that the song was a particularly private thing, despite its poignancy. Jihoon’s played this one for company staff, their members, and thousands of fans. The lyrics, however raw at conception, had been subdued by generalisations to make them more accessible.

But now Jihoon is here, singing as if every word is being torn from his chest, ruinous and intimate as sins revealed in a confessional. All Seungcheol can do is watch his slender, steady hands and his dark, wary eyes. He listens for the questions that Jihoon’s asking without asking and the truths that can’t be divulged unless they are sublimated into music.

With an arpeggio and a quivering exhale, Jihoon finishes the song. The spell is broken and he glances away.

Seungcheol frowns at his profile, motionless and remote as a statue. He has the strangest feeling like they are acting out a scene in a film. Any second, the director will yell “Cut!” and Jihoon will turn to smile at him, casual and untroubled, the way it was before they had to learn how to repair a friendship.

“One more song,” Seungcheol entreats, almost pleading. He wishes he had a script to tell him what to do and what to say to keep someone close.

“What should I play?” Jihoon’s question is a cautious echo of his own earlier words.

Propelled by the surreal inevitability of déjà vu, Seungcheol answers like he did the first time. “Anything.”

There is a slight hesitation before Jihoon’s agile fingers begin to pick out a tune. Seungcheol can’t help the wistful smile that unfurls as he recognises the opening to “I’m Yours”.

Jihoon’s looking at him again, matching his smile, and Seungcheol remembers hearing him sing this song during trainee days and fansigns, practising it softly at the dorm and humming it in the car.

He tries to sing along and harmonise, but he could never recollect the lyrics very well, so he substitutes nonsense syllables and random English phrases. He watches Jihoon’s eyes crinkle at his silliness.

This time, when the song ends, Jihoon holds his gaze awhile, smile lingering on his face. He pats the guitar, shifting as if to get up, so Seungcheol does the only thing that comes to mind and kisses him.

He isn’t entirely sure what to expect, but he certainly had hoped that it wouldn’t be this: Jihoon pushing him away hurriedly and dashing for the exit. His heart sinks for all of two seconds before he realises that Jihoon is not leaving, he’s…locking the door.

He looks back at Seungcheol, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. He stands immobile and grows noticeably antsier when Seungcheol just sits there gawking at him.

Seungcheol gathers his wits and straightens up. There’s an interval when Jihoon looks like he might take off after all, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remains rooted to the spot, watching his advance.

When Seungcheol finally reaches him, bending his head down to kiss those thin lips, Jihoon immediately reciprocates. All traces of earlier apprehension seem to vanish, as if Seungcheol’s touch was enough to dispel any doubts.

Jihoon has never been much for affectionate talk, tending to clam up in embarrassment when forced to be sentimental. Seungcheol is used to it and doesn’t mind the reluctance to attest their closeness with words; he can be demonstrative enough for both of them. But he hadn’t imagined that this was an option—Jihoon’s arms wound tightly around his neck as he stands on the tips of his toes, mouth open and eager.

When Seungcheol breaks away to gasp for air, dizzy from lack of oxygen, he gets hardly a second’s reprieve before Jihoon is tugging his head down again, smaller body pressing close with shameless ardour.

He finds himself groaning into Jihoon’s mouth and he backs him into the wall, using the leverage to crush their bodies together till there is not a hair’s breadth of space between them. Jihoon appears to have the same idea in mind, hooking an ankle behind Seungcheol’s calf securely as if to forbid him from leaving.

Seungcheol is sure that he must be losing it, that he’s gone crazy or he’s dreaming, because this couldn’t possibly be Jihoon who is kissing him so brazenly that it’s making his head spin.

Quite suddenly, he is possessed of the urge to hear Jihoon’s voice, to make sure this is real and to hear an admission of need that confirms what his body is implying. He grabs Jihoon’s face with both hands and holds him in place to plunder his mouth, sucking and nipping at his bottom lip until he whines. Then, he moves back slightly, hands pressing Jihoon to the wall to keep him at arm’s length.

Jihoon opens his eyes slowly, straining against Seungcheol’s grip. He looks confused at the newly imposed distance. Seungcheol leans in, mouth right next to his ear, and whispers, “Did you like that?”

Jihoon continues to look puzzled for a moment before his expression morphs into one of utter disbelief. “What the fuck?”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch into a small smile and he flexes his fingers, clamping down even harder on his shoulders. “Tell me you liked it.”

Jihoon’s demeanour quickly turns exasperated and he wiggles impatiently. “You’re really fishing for compliments right now?”

Seungcheol grabs his wrists roughly and pins them to the wall, promptly leaning in to muffle any protests with his mouth. He can feel Jihoon fighting his hold, so he changes tack, thumbs stroking the delicate skin of inner wrists. Eventually, his body relaxes by degrees until he is beautifully pliant again. Seungcheol presses home his advantage and plants a leg firmly between Jihoon’s, applying just enough pressure on his crotch that he makes a choked little noise.

Leering wickedly, Seungcheol shifts away again, maintaining a deliberate inch of space between their chests. He murmurs right against Jihoon’s lips, “Was that good?”

“Goddamn it, get back here,” Jihoon growls, struggling in vain.

Seungcheol snickers. He trails kisses along his jaw and down his neck, every so often grinding their hips together to make his breath hitch, but not enough for any real satisfaction.

“Come on,” he taunts, breathless and smug as he sucks on Jihoon’s collarbone. “Tell me you like it.”

“Fuck you, asshole, _yes_ , I like it, I like it,” Jihoon snarls, relenting at last.

“There we go,” Seungcheol teases, puckering his lips and bestowing a big smooch on the tip of his nose.

Jihoon glares balefully. “God, I hate you.”

He just waggles his eyebrows in response, then proceeds to finally provide some relief. He releases Jihoon’s wrists in order to cup his face and kiss him soundly.

Jihoon takes the opportunity to wind his arms around Seungcheol’s sturdy waist. He gives his ass a quick squeeze for good measure, smirking into the kiss.

All thoughts of teasing now fled from his mind, Seungcheol sets to work in earnest. He rolls his pelvis against Jihoon’s, the movement sinuous and maddening, establishing a pulsing, primal rhythm.

He can feel white-hot pressure building in his balls, as consuming as an inferno. His focus narrows to the heat of Jihoon’s mouth and the clumsy way he kisses, more desperation than finesse. The unpractised fervour of it is more erotic somehow, attempts at technique abandoned in favour of trying to devour each other’s mouths.

He is rapidly losing any semblance of control, and he fairly slams Jihoon into the wall with how hard he’s thrusting against him. It’s too rough, the friction of pants rubbing his oversensitive cock, but the pain is compounded with shocks of pleasure like electricity sparking under his skin until the sensations become nearly indistinguishable.

Time seems to pass abnormally, inconsistent and dreamlike. It could be seconds or years later when Jihoon thumps his head back with a strangled gasp, and his hips jerk a final few times before orgasm ripples through him with a shudder that reverberates down the length of Seungcheol’s body.

Jihoon slumps into him, head dropping forward to rest on his shoulder. He’s bonelessly sated and unprotesting when Seungcheol grips his slim hips forcefully to wring out his own climax against Jihoon’s pliant body.

He nips wanly at Seungcheol’s earlobe, tongue darting out to gently flick his piercing. That’s all it takes to push him over the edge, and he groans half-muffled expletives into Jihoon’s neck as he rides it out.

He stays there for a bit, catching his breath. After most of his brain functions have returned, he wraps his arms around Jihoon’s waist tightly and topples them both onto the floor, heedless of his yelp of protest.

He curls himself around Jihoon, squeezing him like a big stuffed toy until he hears a wheeze of discomfort.

“This is nice,” Seungcheol murmurs, nuzzling at the boy who fits so snugly in his arms.

“My pants feel disgusting right now,” Jihoon complains, though he makes no move to get up. They lie there for a moment, Seungcheol idly trying to sync his breathing to Jihoon’s.

“Okay, no, we can’t just stay here.” Jihoon pulls away and stands, wincing as he adjusts his clothes.

Seungcheol grouches unhappily but concedes defeat. He rises with some effort, yawning and stretching.

“I think there are some spare clothes in one of the practice rooms.” Jihoon tugs him to the door by the sleeve of his shirt. “We can change and get the hell out of here.”

“Man, if I collapse on the sidewalk when we’re walking back, you’re gonna have to carry me to the dorm.”

Jihoon snorts. “No way. You’re, like, three hundred pounds.”

“Um, of pure muscle, maybe.” He smacks Jihoon’s ass for the comment, lightly enough, but Jihoon flushes and mumbles something under his breath about assholes who take too many liberties.

Seungcheol simply grins and drapes an arm across his shoulders, contentedly making his way in search of clean pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [Jihoon serenading Seungcheol with "I'm Yours"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZtoE3kNBMI) and [that time they sang face-to-face for ten minutes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dg3PO6GEi-w), which puts me six feet under every time I watch it. I actually started this whole thing just to write a duet scene. Everything else was incidental (I had been aiming for T-rated in the planning stages but that's…definitely off the table now, oops). 
> 
> Editing's been a pain in the ass lately so until next time, here's [Jihoon the Beyoncé enthusiast](http://seventeen-news.tumblr.com/post/73469230360).
> 
> Oh, and if y'all have songs that you associate with Jicheol, drop me a line. I'd love some recs!


	6. Chapter 6

The days roll by in a whirlwind of activity, with everyone getting hollow-eyed from the sleepless scramble to hone choreography and record songs.

Jihoon is pretty sure his caffeine consumption is nearing dangerous levels. If he stops chugging coffee, he might actually shut down.

By tacit agreement, he and Seungcheol have put their night-time diversions on hold for work. It isn’t bad most of the time; whatever the state of their personal relationship, they have always worked well as a team. Over the years, they had necessarily developed something of a professional shorthand with each other.

It’s only during respite that he feels the lack.

On certain nights, Seungcheol is last to retire. He patters to his bunk in the dark, clothes rustling as he changes and Jihoon can picture how his shirt is pulled over his head in one fluid motion. There’s the low sound of a zipper being undone, then the light thud of garments tossed on the floor (which is guaranteed to vex their more fastidious roommates in the morning).

Jihoon closes his eyes, listening to the slight creak of the bedframe and Seungcheol’s peaceful sigh while nestling into bed. He wonders how a body can be at once familiar and foreign, an uncanny duality caused by blurring the physical boundaries of their friendship.

It doesn’t seem possible for things to shift as suddenly as they have. He is convinced that it couldn’t have come from nothing, but the thought of a latent, subconscious attraction to Seungcheol is too alarming to dwell on. To his distress, it’s followed by curiosity about how long Seungcheol has been attracted to him. That thought is even more disconcerting and he forcibly empties his mind, though sleep eludes him for a long while.

* * *

Too soon for his liking, the last scheduled recording day arrives. Jihoon sits side by side with Bumzu in the studio, their eyes glued to the feed of Seungcheol in the booth.

“You’re slurring your words in the first line. Do it sharper,” Jihoon instructs into the mic.

“Got it.” Seungcheol takes a deep breath and starts over, but makes the same mistake again and Jihoon grits his teeth in frustration.

“One more time,” Seungcheol says, short and clipped, right as Jihoon was preparing to bark those exact words at him.

Patience isn’t one of Jihoon’s virtues, and it is never more obvious than when he is working. He has been trying to curb some of his harsher tendencies, but it’s the last day—already bleeding into the wee hours of the morning—and this is the last section, and it’s just _one_ goddamn line.

“Focus,” he orders, every inch the implacable producer. He knows that Seungcheol will understand, just as the other members do, that it is necessary. It isn’t quite like switching modes on and off; he doesn’t stop being their friend in the studio, but there is no room to spare anyone’s feelings. They have had to negotiate the inconsistencies, when a superior must say things that a friendship might not forgive.

When Seungcheol finally nails his part, Bumzu cheers unabashedly.

“Nice,” Jihoon praises, tired but sincere.

Seungcheol grins at that, his whole body loosening. Jihoon hadn’t even noticed the tension in his spine until it melts away.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because Bumzu is clapping him on the shoulder with a hearty offer of drinks. Before he knows it, he is being pushed out the door and Seungcheol is griping that hangover recovery won’t fit in their schedule.

Two hours later, they have downed an irresponsible amount of alcohol collectively, and Bumzu is drunkenly bemoaning his promise to pay.

“You’re barely shelling out for three people!” Seungcheol counters. “This guy”—emphatically pointed finger in Jihoon’s direction—“had maximum two damn shots!”

Jihoon kicks at Seungcheol’s leg, but he isn't sure if his foot actually connects. Everything is spinning in a way that is mildly entertaining for now, but could quickly turn disastrous.

The conversation is comfortable and nostalgic, as is often the case when old friends go drinking together. Insobriety dulls the bounds of distance and reserve, making them maudlin.

“You know,” Seungcheol says, “they would’ve loved Doyoon.”

“‘They’?”

“They—them, you know.” He flaps his hand vaguely. “The carats. Carrots. All of the vegetables would’ve loved him. He’s like Seungkwan, a person people.” He pauses and blinks. “Person people. People person.”

His expression grows rueful. “I guess I’d taken it for granted that we’d debut together—us three, I mean. Stupid, right? But we’d already made it through so much shit. We were at the last leg of the fuckin’ race.”

Seungcheol looks down at his shot glass, mouth twisted. “I miss him sometimes,” he says, and Jihoon agrees silently. It had been easier sharing the weight of their history amongst the three of them. From time to time, it feels nearly unbearable that he and Seungcheol are the only ones left.

It isn’t fair, Jihoon thinks viciously, that the pair of them have become each other’s keepers by default. Like an inherited oath, there exists an unspoken acknowledgement that they are tied together by more than choice.

It’s easy with Seungcheol, when things are good—easy as breathing. But now and again, he is dreadfully aware that they are trying to recapture something that will never be the same. Smiles or warm moments still feel like apologies, at times. They are stuck in eternal reconciliation: _I hurt you, I’m sorry, I wish we could go back_.

He is grateful when Bumzu interrupts Seungcheol’s morose reminiscing with a sympathetic pat on the back. “I think we’d better call it a night before Seungcheollie starts crying into his bottle.”

“That is fucking slander!” Seungcheol shouts. “My eyes are completely dry!” He points at his own eye, drunkenly adamant.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jihoon says placatingly, standing and tugging Seungcheol up. Bumzu motions to a waiter for the bill and shoos his companions away with words about youngsters needing their beauty rest.

Wobbling along supporting a drunk Seungcheol is gruelling, especially considering that Jihoon himself is three sheets to the wind. When they finally stumble across the threshold of the dorm, Jihoon doesn’t bother climbing up to his bunk. He simply flops onto the bottom bunk and refuses to budge, despite Seungcheol’s alcohol-weakened attempts to remove him.

Jihoon lies supine, settling his head on the pillow as Seungcheol has a stab at scaling the ladder. Soon enough, he gives up and collapses next to Jihoon. He lays his head on Jihoon’s chest and drapes an arm around his waist, squished in close like a big cat seeking warmth.

He drags the duvet over them, murmuring, “Good night.” Jihoon hums in acknowledgement, too tired to form words. He falls asleep like that, body languid with alcohol and Seungcheol’s reassuring presence beside him.

* * *

Morning dawns like a dropped anvil, largely due to Seungkwan’s specific brand of reveille, i.e. belting out Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” as he flings himself onto his slumbering victims.

Seungcheol lets out a pained groan and attempts to push Seungkwan off, which escalates into a full-blown wrestling match when they both tumble to the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jihoon mutters, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow and trying to block out the sounds of squeals and threats. Unfortunately, Seungkwan manages to wake Jeonghan with his cries for help, who comes to his rescue wielding a pillow like a club.

By the time Jihoon sits up, grimly resigned to wakefulness, Seungkwan is sitting on Seungcheol’s chest with an air of triumph. Jeonghan is perched on his legs, the two of them chatting pleasantly while Seungcheol adjusts to his new role as furniture. His expression turns beseeching when Jihoon walks past, but all he gets in return is a grin filled with the relish of schadenfreude.

_Never a dull moment_ , Jihoon muses, blearily examining his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Muted noises filter through from the other rooms as the house wakes up around him in preparation for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [Jihoon pulling up a chair just so he could nap next to Seungcheol](https://youtu.be/JA4163SnMOA?t=499).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long live [_High School Musical_](https://twitter.com/CARAT_Subs/status/742462114002964480).

The spring sunshine glows abundant and golden and Jihoon leans his head back on the park bench, soaking it in with simple, animal contentment.

Seokmin lies on the ground beneath the bench, placidly allowing Jihoon to use his stomach for a footstool. He hums lazily, snatches of current hits interrupted by bursts of noise from where Jeonghan is refereeing a badminton match.

Someone sighs nearby, and Jihoon lifts his head just as Chan sits down beside him, sweaty and winded. “Man, I thought this was supposed to be for fun, but someone started placing bets and then Soonyoung-hyung looked like he was gonna have an aneurysm when I lost the first match.”

“You should know better than to expect that Jeonghan wouldn’t raise the stakes,” Jihoon says drily.

“I suppose he can be a bit…devious,” Chan says hesitantly. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

“No promises.” Jihoon smirks, enjoying Chan’s panicked expression before leaning back to observe the game.

It’s Wonwoo versus Jisoo, featuring cheerleader Seungkwan on the sidelines. He is chanting something about the vocal team’s supreme magnificence and the talentless hacks on the hip-hop team.

Soonyoung and Jun seem to have thrown in their lot with Wonwoo out of ‘96 solidarity, and are dancing a bastardised version of Apink’s “NoNoNo” while yelling insults at Jisoo.

Spectating raptly, Jihoon doesn’t notice Minghao until he’s startled by the boy sliding next to him and slinging an arm over his shoulders. Mingyu follows closely after, neglecting the unoccupied space at the end of the bench in favour of settling on Minghao’s legs.

“Whatcha doin’?” Mingyu asks, poking Jihoon’s cheek. He grabs Minghao’s hand for protection when Jihoon gives him a warning glance.

“Getting some vitamin D,” Chan pipes up from where he is resting his head on Jihoon’s shoulder.

“Vitamin DK,” Seokmin adds in a meditative tone, prompting a chorus of groans from the others and a light kick from Jihoon.

The air is sweet with the scent of nascent buds, carried along by a breeze that ruffles through Jihoon’s hair. Sporadic birdsong supplies a counterpoint to the hubbub of the badminton showdown.

Soonyoung shouts something that makes Seungkwan squawk indignantly and laughter erupts, full and unconstrained. Jihoon can pick out the sound of each person’s laugh, and the fact of this makes him feel known, like he has a piece of every member lodged in his chest and they, in turn, hold something of him.

“Do you think we’ll still be together in ten years?” Chan asks, overtaken by a sun-drowsy mood conducive to daydreams.

“Obviously,” Minghao says without a trace of ambivalence. “You would all be living in a pigsty if it weren’t for me and Mingyu putting away your shit.”

“Oh, speaking of,” Seokmin cuts in. “Where did you put my Pikachu socks?”

“Top drawer, inner left corner.”

“Awesome. Hey, Mingyu, can you mend them? There’s a hole near the big toe—both socks.”

“Oh my God…”

Jihoon giggles, incurably fond. He exhales the last vestiges of tension from his body, and tries his best to dismiss all thoughts of past and future. He is grounded by Chan’s head on his shoulder, Minghao’s arm around him, and Seokmin at his feet, and feels stably, wholly present.

* * *

With the bulk of the album completed and their title song chosen, choreography creation is in full swing. Soonyoung spends almost every waking hour either in the dance studio with Hyelim and the performance team or mining the others’ brains for inspiration.

It’s an invigorating routine, this frenzied final push leading up to a comeback. At these times, the thirteen of them band together even more tightly, seeking and offering encouragement and the refuge of solidarity.

It has been weeks since he and Seungcheol had last touched with anything other than platonic intent, and Jihoon is frankly perturbed by how much he misses it. Their past discord has already proven that it would be the height of idiocy to further entangle themselves, but somewhere along the line it has become what Jihoon wants, in spite of the risk. He kind of feels like he’s cracking up.

Early morning in the bathroom, the two of them are standing at the sink, groggily getting ready. Because none of them have any boundaries, Jun is in the shower at the same time, separated by only a plastic curtain patterned with tropical fish.

Seungcheol pats his face with aftershave and the pungent scent makes Jihoon glance over in the middle of squeezing out toothpaste. He smiles when he sees a few errant hairs that remain.

“You missed a spot,” he says, laughing and prodding at the bristles on Seungcheol’s chin.

Seungcheol just looks at him blankly while Jun provides an echoey rendition of “20” in the background. Without warning, he drops to his knees, lifts Jihoon’s shirt to press lips to his belly button, then blows a loud and obnoxious raspberry against his skin.

Jihoon flinches back, dumbfounded, as Seungcheol gets to his feet with brisk detachment. “True beauty lies in imperfection, Jihoonie,” he says before prancing away, leaving Jihoon stunned stupid by his sheer ridiculousness and regrettably, kind of turned on.

* * *

The day of dance rehearsal is long and strenuous, since no one is willing to stop until it's faultless. By the end of it, Jihoon has lost all feeling in his left leg. As the rest of the members cool down, the team leaders assemble for a brief check-in.

“We’ve basically got the sofa stuff down now, so we just have to practise playing up the expressions,” Soonyoung says, exhausted but satisfied. “Remember those words of wisdom, guys: ‘we’re all in this together’.”

Jihoon smiles in amusement. “You’ve watched _High School Musical_ enough times that you’re practically shitting out chorus numbers.”

“Dude, it’s the timeless emotion of _Romeo and Juliet_ without everyone bleeding out all over the place. What’s not to like?”

Seungcheol nods with an air of erudition. “Hm, that’s true. It could be considered the pinnacle of family-friendly entertainment.”

“‘What time is it?’”Soonyoung hollers to the room at large.

“‘Summertime!’” Seungkwan shouts, easily heard over a few uncertain responses of “10:10?” from other members.

“You bet your ass it is!” Soonyoung crows before turning back to explain, “He watched the second one with me.”

“I’m gonna go work,” Jihoon says dismissively, catching Seungcheol’s eye to add, “Come up when you’re done here.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, promptly making his way to the stairwell and leaving the buzz of activity behind.

In the studio, he fiddles with some newly started demos though he is too jittery to make any substantial progress. He fairly jumps when his name is called from the doorway, and berates himself for his lack of equanimity.

“Has everyone left?” he asks, keeping his eyes glued unseeingly to the computer screen.

“Yup.” The lock clicks into place, a jarring sound in the amplified silence of the room. In a few efficient strides, Seungcheol is standing before him. Jihoon turns to him and tilts his chin up, wanting to be kissed but loath to voice his desire. Instead of taking the hint, Seungcheol pulls Jihoon off the chair and sits down heavily in his place.

“Man, that stomping move is murder on my knee. It makes me feel like a damn geriatric.” The non-sequitur knocks Jihoon off balance and he stares at Seungcheol, who smiles tiredly in response.

Suddenly, Jihoon feels unsure of the situation. He had presumed that Seungcheol had wanted this too, that it would be a welcome break from their hectic rehearsals. But maybe he was wrong—maybe Seungcheol hadn’t been thinking about it at all. The thought makes Jihoon flush with humiliation and more than a little anger—at himself, but also at Seungcheol for starting the whole thing.

He clears his throat, turning jerkily to the monitor and clicking at a few tool options. “What do you think about putting a rap verse here? Can you and Hansol write some—”

“Wait, you actually want to work?” Seungcheol interrupts in a whiny tone that belies his age. He grabs Jihoon and hauls him onto his lap, arms clamped around his torso. He rests his forehead on Jihoon’s shoulder and mumbles, “Let’s at least take a nap first. Just a few minutes, please?”

Jihoon laughs, giddy with relief. He hadn’t been the only one after all. It makes him bold enough to admit, “I had something else in mind, but if you’d rather sleep…”

The arms caging him stiffen momentarily, uncomfortably tight. “Really? Like what?”

“Surprise me,” Jihoon says, going breathless from both anticipation and Seungcheol’s vise-like hold.

There is a beat of silence, and Jihoon is hugged so close to Seungcheol’s chest that he can feel his heart racing, a frantic mirror of his own pulse.

“Do you have any lotion?” he asks abruptly.

“Um…not here,” Jihoon answers, swallowing hard and wondering what he has in mind.

Seungcheol seems to mull it over for a second before letting go of Jihoon and nudging him aside. He stands with determination.

“I’m gonna go find some,” he calls over his shoulder, jogging away. “Don’t leave!”

Jihoon waits, very deliberately not thinking about anything. By and by, Seungcheol barges through the door, panting and waving a small bottle of hand lotion proudly. “Mingyu usually leaves an extra one in the practice room.”

“Fucking hell,” Jihoon says, hysteria rising perilously in his chest. “We’re seriously talking about Mingyu right now?”

Seungcheol smiles sheepishly. “I know, killed the mood, sorry. Oh, I also took some tissues for…afterwards.” He fishes a little packet out of his pocket.

Jihoon drops his head into his hands, half-heartedly wishing for the building to collapse or something, to put them both out of their misery.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, taking measured steps towards him. “If you wanna call it off, that’s totally fine. We don’t—”

“Fuck you.” Jihoon yanks him closer, swiftly pushing him down into the chair and straddling him.

Thankfully, Seungcheol gets the idea and drops the scavenged items to place strong, warm hands on his waist. Jihoon leans in with parted lips, biting impatiently for him to open his mouth. Seungcheol huffs a laugh through his nose and obliges readily. His lips are deliriously plush as he licks into Jihoon’s mouth, ardent and filthy.

He pulls away from the kiss to tear his shirt off, throwing it to the side. Jihoon follows his lead, goosebumps forming when cool air hits his heated skin.

They pause to examine each other. Jihoon runs his hands down Seungcheol’s chest, eliciting shivers when he grazes a nipple. Without thinking, he bends down, tilting his head to slowly circle one nipple with his tongue. Seungcheol inhales sharply, which Jihoon takes as a cue to suck it into his mouth properly, playing with the tight bud until Seungcheol wrenches him up fiercely by the hair, holding him in place to ply his mouth open with teeth and tongue until Jihoon’s lips are bruised by the onslaught.

He digs his nails into Seungcheol’s shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and shift with every movement. He grinds down experimentally onto the bulge in Seungcheol’s pants and is rewarded with a soft grunt.

His hands fall from Jihoon’s hair and slide down his back, slipping smoothly beneath underwear to squeeze his ass.

A pulse of heat jolts through Jihoon’s spine and the way Seungcheol’s rough, greedy fingers are kneading his ass cheeks makes his cock throb with arousal.

He uses his grip to bring Jihoon nearer, rolling his hips up in shallow thrusts. Jihoon snaps at him for being such a tease and Seungcheol’s responding laugh sounds shaky, betraying his nerves. He sucks in a deep breath to steady himself, then hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Jihoon’s pants and tugs downward slightly, more a suggestion than anything.

It’s a bit awkward to manoeuvre on the chair, so Jihoon gets to his feet, stepping smartly out of his remaining clothes and kicking them away. He raises an eyebrow at Seungcheol, who had used the opportunity to divest himself of his pants and is now sitting in his boxers, blatantly ogling him.

Smothering any self-consciousness about his own nudity, he motions expectantly at Seungcheol’s still-clothed state.

“You don’t really want me to get my butt sweat on your chair, do you?” Seungcheol gives him a lopsided grin, one cheek dimpled impishly.

“Ugh.” Jihoon wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Point taken.”

Seungcheol’s eyes are dark and covetous, roving over his body. “Turn around.”

Jihoon dawdles, watching a blush spread up his neck, but when no explanation is forthcoming he does as he is told. Seungcheol lifts him onto his lap effortlessly, and it bothers Jihoon that he sort of enjoys being manhandled.

He is pulled flush against his chest, then Seungcheol starts nosing at the nape of his neck and worrying the delicate flesh near his jugular, all the while frotting against the cleft of his ass. The thick shaft of his dick is easily felt through the thin layer of cloth between them. It enkindles an ache in Jihoon for things that he hardly dares to think about, a language of desire that he doesn’t want to learn.

He reaches for his own neglected erection, which bobs obscenely with the gyrating movements of Seungcheol’s hips, wanting to come already so this can be over. He yearns for the mindlessness of climax to eclipse this endless loop of lust and anxiety. To his dismay, he gets all of one good stroke before Seungcheol is wresting his hands away to twine their fingers together. “Not yet,” he whispers, punctuated by a sharp nip at his earlobe.

So he clutches at Seungcheol’s hands, digging his nails in hard and biting his lip to stifle any embarrassing noises as Seungcheol continues the cruel, provocative grinding of his hips, ramming his cock against Jihoon’s ass like he wants to fuse their bodies together. He breathes curses next to Jihoon’s ear almost reverently, as if relaying sweet nothings.

Half-crazed with frustrated arousal, he tries fruitlessly to pull free of Seungcheol’s hands. Jihoon whimpers, a needy, involuntary sound that would have made him cringe in mortification if he had been in his right mind.

“Face me,” Seungcheol says, letting go of him at last. Jihoon obeys, turning to sit astride his legs. He doesn’t bother with any words, just grabs fistfuls of Seungcheol’s hair, pulling him in for a harsh kiss and rutting shamelessly against his thigh. He all but sobs with relief at how good the friction feels, and he punishes the withholder by biting down until he tastes blood. Seungcheol recoils in surprise, narrowing his eyes. In retaliation, he gives Jihoon’s ass a stinging slap that makes his breath hitch.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Jihoon says, but it comes out veering towards a moan, so he gives up on talking altogether. Instead, he opts for trying his best to suck a hickey right under Seungcheol’s jaw. The task is absorbing enough that he is startled by the sound of a bottle cap popping open and the cloying scent of hand lotion.

Seungcheol squeezes a generous dollop onto his hand and pulls himself out of his boxers. He smears the lotion with firm, full strokes, eyes closed and breath trembling.

“Fuck,” he says throatily, cock slippery with lotion and looking almost painfully engorged. Jihoon stares, feeling like his skin is on fire, and reaches out to run a finger tentatively along the length of it. Seungcheol loosens his hold in order to curl Jihoon’s slender fingers around him, guiding him for a few slow pumps and then letting go. He sits back, watching hungrily as his dick slides through the tight ring of Jihoon’s fist.

With shaking hands, Seungcheol lifts Jihoon by the thighs, bringing him in until their chests are not quite touching. He coats his palm with more lotion, then lines them up and wraps his hand around both of their cocks, stroking fast and rough. Jihoon nearly chokes on his own saliva at the torrent of sensation and his face burns from the wet, sordid squelches as Seungcheol works them in hand. He alternates the pace, sometimes jerking hard and insistent, then lingering to rub at sensitive foreskin with his thumb, spreading their pre-come for more lubrication, and Jihoon thinks he might actually die from the excruciating surge of pleasure.

There is a fevered, almost painful tension rising in his balls that makes him want to beg, so he buries his face in Seungcheol’s neck and muffles incoherent pleas against sweat-slicked skin. He is so out of it that he hardly even realises it when he comes, spurting all over Seungcheol’s hand as it relentlessly milks the orgasm from his body.

Floating on an endorphin high, Jihoon can’t summon the energy to do more than wrap his arms around Seungcheol’s neck and kiss him, spurring him on. Jihoon sucks on his tongue, enjoying how it draws a low, desperate sound from his throat. Seungcheol’s body goes taut as a piano wire when he finishes, accompanied by a scarcely perceptible quiver that reverberates into stillness as he recovers. Jihoon kisses him through it, idly playing with the soft hair at the back of his neck.

Seungcheol leans back, eyes still shut, to take in huge gulps of air. Jihoon watches his dark lashes fluttering on his cheeks and how his eyebrows are scrunched up like he is concentrating on something. They have borne witness to each other’s vulnerabilities so many times, but this has the quality of an unmasking that takes him by surprise. He gently brushes damp bangs from Seungcheol’s forehead, at the mercy of this clenched longing in the space between his ribs.

Seungcheol opens his eyes at the touch, appearing dazed. Jihoon’s mouth quirks with suppressed laughter, though he knows that he probably looks equally dopey. Seungcheol reaches over the side of the chair, picking up the tissues he’d acquired earlier—“See? Forethought.” “Do you want a medal?”—and cleans them off, then tucks himself back into his underwear.

“You know, if I smell Mingyu’s lotion and get a Pavlovian boner, I’m gonna kill you,” Jihoon says, talking just to prolong the moment. In a while, the usual doubts will rear their loathsome heads again, but right now Seungcheol’s arms are a safeguard around him and he can blame the chemical rush for the affection suffusing his body.

Seungcheol smiles, wonderfully blissed out, and reels him in for a kiss. It’s deep and exploratory, a relaxed caress of lips and tongue as he hugs him close.

 _Thank you_ , Jihoon wants to say, the words rising sudden and absurd in his mind. It is an all-encompassing gratitude, and perhaps most of it is not even directed at Seungcheol, so he swallows the urge to speak. It would sound ridiculous anyway, in this context.

He holds on to the feeling though, a small ember that warms him as he kisses Seungcheol back, propelled by inarticulate urgency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [Mingyu suspecting Seungcheol of stealing his lotion](https://youtu.be/a6eT9hcErcQ?t=358). ONE MORE EDIT AND I'M HOME FREE!!


	8. Chapter 8

Belonging to a family of thirteen is a curious experience, with its ever-fluctuating dynamics. Certain relationships are more static than others, but providence often deals unexpected cards. Roommate assignments, MC gigs, guest appearances on shows—they all result in a constant ebb and flow in their rapports. It can be nice to grow unintentionally closer to someone, discovering commonalities and making up inane inside jokes that belong only to a few of them instead of all of them. Such private versions of camaraderie feel just as precious as their collective intimacy.

Thus, it isn’t surprising to Seungcheol that his friendship with Jihoon is different from what it once was. They rely on each other less than when they were teenagers, or at least not in the same manner. Being in separate units naturally results in less rehearsal time spent together, too.

He likes seeing Jihoon open up with the others, letting down his defences more often than he used to. It’s a relief in some ways because there are problems that he can’t solve alone, and when Jihoon is in a funk, sometimes it takes the steady coaxing and patient ear of Jeonghan or Jun to draw him out. Other moods call for Jisoo or Seokmin as antidotes, with their bright, easy humour that doesn’t demand anything in return.

In all honesty, he and Jihoon are rather dissimilar people. Theirs was a bond forged more by circumstance than overwhelming compatibility. Sometimes Seungcheol wonders if they were to meet for the first time now, without all of their layered history, whether they would still be friends.

He poses this question to Jihoon one night, swept up by a peculiarly pensive mood. Their album release is in a week and a trip to America follows soon after. It feels like they are racing headlong into a thrilling, unpredictable future.

They are standing in line at a convenience store, a pit stop on their way back to the dorm. Jihoon looks at Seungcheol for a moment, pondering his answer, and says, “I don’t know.”

Once they are outside, ambling home in the temperate spring weather, Jihoon says, apropos of nothing, “We would’ve been different, anyway, if we hadn’t met each other. It’s pointless to speculate.”

Seungcheol hums in agreement, munching on some wafer cookies and content to let the matter drop. They walk along in companionable silence for a while, Seungcheol feeding Jihoon a bite of wafer every so often until it is finished. He lets his mind wander, absently observing their surroundings and trying to recall the name of a song that has been stuck in his head all day.

Jihoon breaks the silence, talking so quietly that he’s barely audible over the murmur of city noises. “This isn’t going to last, is it—our…thing.” It’s clumsy and halting, spoken in an undertone. His voice doesn’t rise at the end, but it is pitched like a question all the same.

Seungcheol studies Jihoon who, in turn, keeps his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. His hair is dark again, for the first time in ages, and the cut makes him look younger and softer. His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he walks. Seungcheol wants to reach out and hold one in his own.

“Probably not,” he responds, plain and succinct. This is temporary, a by-product of an insular environment and undirected libido. It isn’t worth the risk in the long term and besides, in every imagined version of his future there is a family, a wife and children to call his own. He knows Jihoon wants that too, with the vague but ingrained conviction that therein lies happiness. It is an anchoring thought that despite the unreality of stardom, there are still certain trajectories that their lives must take.

But they are young yet, and all of that is only a faraway dream. For now, they can be reckless a little while longer.

“Don’t stew over it, ‘Hoon-ah,” Seungcheol teases. “You’re such a gloomy old man.”

Jihoon looks up at him, an incipient smile sweetening his expression. Seungcheol takes the opportunity to ruffle his hair, messing it up in a way that he knows Jihoon hates. He gets a scowl and a shove for his efforts, and he can’t help but laugh as his disgruntled friend attempts to smooth his bangs.

Seungcheol drapes his arm around Jihoon’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Jihoon makes an exaggerated grimace of disgust, but steps closer anyway. The shape of him is beloved and familiar, though altered somewhat by the new paths that Seungcheol has mapped over his body.

Tomorrow, they will rehearse and work, fighting tooth and nail for their ambitions. They will make music together, and maybe steal kisses in the cocoon of the studio, a transient secret that will someday be past.

It’s enough, Seungcheol thinks, worn and grateful and senselessly happy. It’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by heteronormativity + pain and suffering. As always, you're invited to come shake my hand or hurl abuse at me through comments/other platforms. That's all, folks! :)


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